The Reformed Vampire Support Group

  ‘It’s okay,’ he assured me. ‘I’m not brave enough to do anything stupid.’

  Then he began to descend the staircase.

  My gaze didn’t linger on him. Instead it skipped from the grubby green cupboards to the peeling wallpaper; from an overflowing rubbish bin to a china bowl full of silver bullets. When I spotted the empty wooden knife block, I wondered if I should search the room for a weapon that was slightly more efficient than my fence post.

  But I didn’t want to make too much noise, crashing through drawers full of cutlery. The ticking of the clock on the wall was loud enough. What with that, and the sighing of the wind, and the humming of the refrigerator, I found it hard to listen for approaching vehicles.

  The sudden swell of a murmured conversation underfoot made my job even more difficult. Though I strained to catch the words, I couldn’t make them out. As far as I could tell, the tone of the dialogue was excited rather than fearful. Nevertheless, my nerves were stretched to breaking point by the time a muffled voice said, ‘Nina? Are you still up there?’

  ‘Dave!’ I cried. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I sure am,’ Dave answered. ‘And so is Father Ramon.’

  I couldn’t even respond to that. My throat closed up as tears sprang to my eyes. It’s funny how things hit you, sometimes: things that knock you sideways because they’re such revelations. The fact that you’re really a vampire, say. Or the fact that you care about someone a great deal, and you didn’t even know it.

  The relief that flooded me was so overwhelming that I nearly dropped my fence post, and had to lean against the kitchen table.

  ‘Nina? What’s wrong?’ Dave’s head had appeared, popping out of the hole in the floor. ‘Are you feeling sick?’

  ‘No. I’m fine.’ Though I wasn’t, of course. ‘What are we going to do now? Look for a key?’

  ‘We don’t have to. They didn’t lock the cell door. They just bolted it from the outside.’ Having reached the topmost step, Dave moved aside to make way for Father Ramon. ‘We’d better not turn on any lights, Father. Just in case the McKinnons come back and see them from a distance.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think they’ll be coming back anytime soon,’ Father Ramon replied, before he, too, began to emerge from the hole in the floor: first his head, then his shoulders, then his torso. He didn’t look any different; there were no bruises on his face or rips in his clothes, and his thick grey hair was no more dishevelled than usual.

  He didn’t see me until I moved towards him.

  ‘Nina!’ he said with a smile. ‘You’re okay, are you?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, yes.’ I was about to fling my arms around him when I heard an unexpected creak. And my heart seemed to do a backflip.

  Someone else was mounting the stairs behind Father Ramon.

  ‘Who’s that?’ I yelped.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s all right.’ The priest stepped forward, inserting himself between me and the stranger. ‘It’s only Reuben.’

  My jaw dropped.

  ‘Reuben won’t hurt you,’ Father Ramon added quickly. ‘He didn’t before, and he won’t now. Reuben – you remember Nina, don’t you? She’s not dead, as you can see. Or maybe you can’t.’ He gave an embarrassed chuckle. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit dark in here.’

  You might be wondering what I did, upon being formally introduced to my very first werewolf. I’m afraid that I didn’t do anything much. I just stared and stared, with my mouth hanging open.

  Because Reuben was gorgeous.

  It’s a mystery to me how that mangy, skulking, ill-formed beast from the pit could have turned into such a beautiful boy. Not that he looked particularly well-groomed, or anything – far from it. His clothes were soiled and torn. His fingernails were dirty. Dried blood was smeared across his neck and chest, and was soaking through the bandage that had been wrapped around his left forearm. I doubt that his hair had been cut in years; it was a mane of snarled brown curls that hung down to his shoulders. If he hadn’t been so young, he probably would have been sporting a beard down to his navel, instead of the scrubby growth that covered his chin like moss.

  But despite being unkempt, unshaven and thoroughly uncared for, Reuben was still the most stunning guy I’d ever seen. Though he wasn’t very tall, his proportions were perfect. So were his teeth, and his nose, and his high, sculptured cheekbones. He had enormous green eyes ringed by jet-black lashes, and a lean, wiry, muscular build. Though adorned with many scabs and scars, his hands were as finely modelled as his face, with long fingers and strong wrists.

  What I most admired about him, however, was his vibrancy. You could tell at a glance that he wasn’t a vampire, because no vampire ever had such a warm olive complexion, or such luminous eyes. No vampire ever moved in such an energetic way, as if he could barely restrain his enthusiasm or his impatience. Even when he was standing still, Reuben seemed restless. You could almost feel the nerves twitching under his skin.

  When he scrutinised me, his whole head lunged forward – and I have to admit that I fell back a few steps. I suppose that I still nursed a lingering, irrational fear that he was going to pounce like a panther.

  ‘You look better standing up,’ he remarked, squinting through the shadows. I glanced at Father Ramon, in mute appeal. Reuben wasn’t making any sense.

  ‘That was Reuben’s cell, downstairs,’ the priest explained. ‘He came back in there after you fell asleep. After he … when he was himself again.’

  Only Father Ramon could have put it so delicately. Dave was a little more blunt.

  ‘What about the other werewolf?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t we be letting him out, as well?’

  The priest hesitated, as Reuben swung around to confront Dave.

  ‘His name was Orlando,’ Reuben said harshly. ‘And I killed him.’

  ‘Oh.’ Dave cringed, though I don’t suppose anyone saw him do it except me. Not in that light.

  ‘I killed him and then I ate him,’ Reuben continued. There was so much raw anger and self-disgust in his voice that I could hardly bear to listen. ‘I don’t remember doing it, but I saw what was left of him afterwards. When I woke up.’

  ‘Don’t think about that now,’ Father Ramon advised. ‘We’ll talk about it later. Right now we have to go.’

  ‘Yes. Let’s get out of here,’ I whimpered. But Reuben scowled.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ he spat, with more venom than I would have thought possible. ‘I’m staying right here. And when those bastards come back, I’ll kill them.’

  ‘No, no.’ The priest laid a hand on Reuben’s arm. ‘You mustn’t do that. It might seem like the right solution, but it isn’t.’

  ‘If I don’t kill them, they’ll come after us!’

  ‘Reuben …’ Father Ramon’s tone was the same one that he always uses at our group meetings, when he’s trying to reason somebody out of a black mood. ‘I’m sorry to be so frank,’ he gently admonished, ‘but haven’t you killed enough people already?’

  Believe it or not, this was exactly the right thing to say. Reuben seemed to crumple. His shoulders sagged. A sob burst out of him.

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ the priest continued. ‘I understand that.’

  ‘I can’t – I can’t—’

  ‘You’re not to blame for what’s happened in the past,’ Father Ramon assured him. ‘But if you kill the McKinnons, the sin will be on your head. Not on theirs.’

  ‘We have to go,’ said Dave. ‘Really. We have to go now.’ Tentatively he addressed Reuben. ‘Listen, mate – about that four-wheel drive parked outside. Do you happen to know where the keys are? Coz if you don’t, we’re going to have to start walking.’

  Reuben sniffed. He wiped his damp cheeks, spreading some of the dirt around. Finally he looked up at Dave.

  ‘I don’t need keys,’ he replied hoarsely. ‘Not when it comes to car engines.’

  Then he pushed past us, bounding towards the kitchen door.

  14

  It’s hardly surp
rising that Reuben Schneider knew how to hot-wire a car. Until the age of fourteen, he’d led a very disorderly life

  His mother should never have had children. Of the seven sons she bore (to three different men), one is now dead, one’s in jail, one’s a drug dealer and one has mental health problems. The eldest son, Dane, is twenty years older than Reuben; when the boys’ mother died of an alcohol-related disease, Dane and his wife invited eight-year-old Reuben and his twelve-year-old brother Jessie into their home. But Reuben and Jessie were pretty wild. They drank and smoked and sniffed the odd can of petrol. They stole cars and went for joy-rides. Sometimes they vandalised the empty shops that were becoming more and more common in the main street of their small country town, which was slowly wilting at the edges, like a week-old lettuce in the fridge.

  So no one was much surprised when Reuben was found lying naked in a paddock one morning, with no memory of how he’d arrived there. He’d been drinking quite heavily the evening before, because his older brother Callum had come to town – and Callum was always happy to buy beer for teenagers. Since Reuben and Callum and Jessie and their friends had all got drunk too, it was generally thought that they must have played a practical joke on Reuben.

  No one connected Reuben’s lost night with the six dead sheep that were discovered on nearby farms the next day, with their throats torn out and their entrails gone. Everyone blamed wild dogs for the slaughter. Everyone, that is, except Barry McKinnon. Because Barry knew a lot about werewolves. He knew things that most people don’t know.

  He knew, for example, that werewolves are born, not made. Unlike vampires, werewolves don’t spread their infection. That’s why werewolves are so rare. They come from a particular gene pool that originated in Spain or Portugal, and they’re always seventh sons. In fact, one of the South American countries used to provide a cash payment for every seventh son born, just to prevent these babies from being killed by their parents. I can’t remember which country it was (Argentina, perhaps?), but if you want to know more, you can look it up on the Internet.

  Of course, seventh sons aren’t as common as they used to be. Not in Australia, at any rate. That’s why you’ll find more were-wolves in countries like the Philippines and Brazil. Nevertheless, it sometimes happens that an Australian boy, upon entering puberty, suffers an adverse reaction to a certain stage in every lunar cycle. If he’s lucky, he won’t end up dead by morning. (Apparently unrestrained werewolves are often killed by fox-baits or pig-shooters or hypothermia – because lying naked in a frosty paddock can be fatal.) If he’s extremely lucky, his parents soon work out what’s going on, and take steps to protect him. They might lock him up or pump him full of tranquillisers when they’re expecting a full moon. They might shield him from the public gaze.

  But if he’s very unlucky indeed, someone like Barry McKinnon will get to him first. And that’s quite likely, because the Barry McKinnons of this world know exactly what to look for.

  First of all, Barry used to make a point of listening to regional news broadcasts from across the country. Whenever he heard a story about stock losses blamed on dingos or feral dogs, he would head straight for the scene of the attack. Then, upon reaching his destination, he would start to make inquiries. He’d hang out in pubs and check the local papers, trying to find out if any teenage residents had been ‘playing up’. By masquerading as a youth worker with engine trouble, he would not only buy himself a few days in town; he also had an excuse for his interest in the problems of young people – problems such as unexplained absences at night, sudden displays of aggression, blackouts, moodiness and mysterious injuries. Sometimes he would ask about the number of children in a particular family, though for the most part he wouldn’t even have to. If there were seven sons, this unusual fact would often be volunteered without encouragement.

  By the time he’d left the area, Barry would have narrowed down his search. He would have identified his quarry’s name, address and customary hangouts. Armed with this information, his son would pass through town soon afterwards, driving a panel van that had been rented with a fake ID. Dermid would be in and out of the place so quickly that he would rarely attract any kind of attention.

  But when he left, he would take with him a drunk, stoned, hogtied or otherwise incapacitated werewolf, concealed in the back of his panel van.

  According to Reuben, the McKinnons had used this technique at least twice before they kidnapped him. Other werewolves had been acquired in other ways. One Filipino boy had been purchased from his grandfather and smuggled into the country. One fully grown werewolf had been tracked down somewhere in the wilds of northern Australia – where he’d been living a miserable, isolated existence, drinking himself to death. In neither case had the friendless werewolf been reported missing.

  ‘I probably was, in the end,’ Reuben remarked. ‘But everybody would have thought I’d run away. Like Callum ran away. I was always saying I’d run away.’

  At this stage in his narrative he had to stop, overcome by some memory or emotion that caused him to turn his head and stare out the window. We were well past Cobar by then, driving hell-for-leather towards Sydney in the McKinnons’ four-wheel drive. Our luggage had been left behind at the Miner’s Rest Motel; we had decided not to return there, in case the staff were friends of Barry McKinnon’s.

  Besides, as Dave repeatedly pointed out, we had to get back home as quickly as possible – preferably before the sun came up.

  Father Ramon was at the wheel, because he was the only one of us still in possession of a driver’s licence (not to mention a mobile phone and a credit card). Dave had offered to sit beside Reuben in the back. I don’t know why, exactly. It’s possible that Dave didn’t trust Reuben. Or perhaps Dave wanted to sit as far away from the headlights as possible, since I was the one who had managed to score Father Ramon’s sunglasses. Poor Dave’s eyes were completely unprotected; we could only hope that, if he shut them on those rare occasions when we encountered an oncoming vehicle, he wouldn’t start bleeding from his tear ducts.

  ‘You can notify your brothers just as soon as we’ve sorted things out,’ Father Ramon advised Reuben, in an attempt to offer some kind of comfort. ‘As I mentioned before, Dave and Nina and their friends would prefer not to have dealings with the police. They wouldn’t want to become involved in any official measures that you might take against the McKinnons. But once we’ve laid our plans, you’ll be able to go straight back home.’ Glancing into the rear-view mirror, the priest addressed Dave. ‘While you were asleep, I told Reuben all about your … um … difficulties,’ he finished. ‘I had to.’

  Dave grunted. Reuben turned. He had a way of throwing his entire body into every movement, expending vast amounts of energy on the simplest little action.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Reuben, seizing on the topic of our ‘difficulties’ like a starving leopard tucking into a wildebeest. ‘I didn’t believe him, at first, but then I thought – why not? If I’m a werewolf, why can’t there be vampires? Especially since you can’t fly, or nothing.’

  ‘No,’ Dave murmured. ‘We can’t.’

  ‘And you don’t go round biting people, either. Is that right?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I piped up, craning around to emphasise this all-important fact. ‘We’re reformed vampires. We’ve never attacked anyone. Have we, Dave?’

  Dave shook his head. Reuben’s sudden crack of laughter had an almost hysterical edge to it; his mood was volatile, and he couldn’t seem to keep still. He was constantly scratching and squirming and tugging at his clothes and hair. I could see why Dave looked uneasy, though he must have felt sorry for Reuben. How could you not feel sorry for someone who’s been locked in a concrete tank for five years? I mean, it obviously wasn’t Reuben’s fault that he had an incendiary streak.

  All the same, I couldn’t deny that he was an unsettling person to have around – exciting, but unsettling. Like a smoking volcano.

  ‘Reformed vampires,’ Reuben cackled. ‘That’s good. I wish I
could reform myself. But I can’t.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Father Ramon. He didn’t mean to imply anything; of that I’m quite convinced.

  Nevertheless, Reuben frowned.

  ‘Of course I’m sure!’ he snapped. ‘How can I stop myself when I don’t even know what I’m doing? I never remember a thing! Not one, single, bloody thing!’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said the priest, in a soothing manner. Dave quickly changed the subject.

  ‘I’m getting a signal,’ he observed, tapping at the screen of Father Ramon’s mobile phone. This was exciting news. So far, we hadn’t been able to make any calls, because the McKinnons didn’t have a landline – and because Wolgaroo Corner was too remote for anything but satellite phone reception.

  Dave immediately began to punch a number into the keypad.

  ‘Who are you calling?’ I demanded. ‘Are you calling my mum?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Dave replied. ‘She must be pretty worried—’

  ‘Here! Give it here!’ I tried to grab at the phone, desperate to hear my mother’s voice. ‘Please, Dave? Let me talk to her.’

  Dave submitted without protest, and I jammed the little device to my ear just as Mum said ‘Hello?’ at the other end of the line.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Nina?’

  ‘It’s all right,’ I croaked. ‘We’re all right, Mum.’

  ‘Where the hell—?’

  ‘I know! I’m sorry. You wouldn’t believe what happened! It was awful.’

  ‘Where are you?’ She cut me off. ‘Are you coming home?’

  ‘We’re on our way. But it’s going to take a while.’

  ‘Nina.’ Dave had leaned forward. ‘Did you have any identification on you?’

  ‘What?’ I couldn’t believe that he would even think of interrupting me at such a time. ‘Dave, I’m talking to my mother—’

  ‘Were you carrying any identification?’ He spoke so sharply that I stared at him in amazement. ‘It’s important,’ he insisted. ‘Was there anything in your pockets that had your address on it?’